Sunday, March 26, 2006


Don't talk to her for she's woken up sour. From an ill-advised sleep on a sweltering afternoon. With a stale taste in her mouth that brushing her teeth has not driven away. A sleep filled with unfinished dreams and unfulfilled wishes. A hostile sleep that kept on shuttling her back and forth from that state for which slumber is too pleasant a word. A sleep that made her clutch her phone like a lifeline. A headache that begs a cigarette and caffeine for cure. She needs comfort. But that isn't forthcoming. She wants sex. But that's missing, too. She'll settle for silence, but they keep asking her questions. She thinks it might be wise to begin the weaning process, but she really doesn't want to. She is suffering from a foul, nasty mood. Be careful. Leave her alone. She might just bite.